


「No One Ever Dies from a Little Arts and Craft on a Sunday Morning; 算吧啦」

by yuren



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: F/M, Implied Sexual Content, Suggestive Themes, actually i'm not sure what to tag this as!, boobies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-26
Updated: 2021-01-26
Packaged: 2021-03-18 12:55:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28992543
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yuren/pseuds/yuren
Summary: You get creative with his jersey.
Relationships: Sakusa Kiyoomi/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 39





	「No One Ever Dies from a Little Arts and Craft on a Sunday Morning; 算吧啦」

**Author's Note:**

> please lmk if the rating needs to be changed (つ﹏<。)

Was it intentional? Oh, absolutely.

It’s not your fault that the Jackal’s management had finally decided to change their uniform kits after so long. It’s not even a big change; they literally only shifted the three claw marks higher so that they won’t align so explicitly with the players’ crotches. The PR team had finally noticed that they made for rather, well, explicit fan photos.

Bokuto and Atsumu took the brunt of the design, with so many years in the black and gold. Poor Hinata won’t even get to enjoy the upgrade to a much more respectful design. As for Sakusa? He’s just glad you don’t need to storm into the offices again the next season.

Better late than never, right? 

Such is bureaucracy. 

MSBY never gave an official reason for the change. To the public, it just seemed like a money-grabbing marketing tactic. But it didn’t cause much of a fuss. Most people don’t think they’ll change the kits for another long while.

So people eagerly snatched up the new versions, leaving a huge overstock of the old ones. And before they went to the garment facilities to be repurposed, you snatched up a few for posterity like the good basketball wife you are — but for volleyball and not married (yet).

And like a bad volleyball non-wife, you decided to play arts and craft with a few of them. You intend to wear at least a couple of the fifteen number fifteen Sakusa jerseys you have newly acquired. But wearing the exact same thing each day lacks variety.

So on a warm Sunday morning when your lover’s out for a run, you promptly got to work.

Was it successful? More than you could’ve imagined.

Your little project went so well that Sakusa’s currently staring down at you from the doorway of the apartment, tired from his run, face darkened from probably not his run.

It’s really not your fault; there were only so many modifications you could make.

The tiniest jersey of the bunch — you aren’t even sure why you had gotten it — had been cut too short. And like a thin eyeliner wing that you can’t stop correcting, you ended up cutting the hem to right at your chest.

It was mostly accidental. 

The end result is an MSBY jersey that is short enough to make eyes drop.

In your humble opinion, you’d say it’s a huge success.

So successful that Sakusa’s now staring down at you from right above, no longer tired from his run, face darkened from the innocently unapologetic smile on your face.

And probably also from the flash of soft skin that his eyes flicker down to.

You don’t dare look away from your lover’s tight lips and narrowed eyes, but you just know that his fists are clenched by his side. How you know? A sense for danger, if you will, but with how there are probably white claw marks on those rough palms, you don’t think your self-preservation instincts are working all that well today.

And when his eyes slowly lift up, glaring and an all-consuming black, you know your survival rate is very much dependant on how you choose your next move.

Sakusa’s right hand unfurls from his side and calmly skims up the length of your sweatpants-clad hips and then your waist, finally stopping at the edges of the shortened hem, hovering over the soft exposed flesh. 

“Did you do this?” he says, voice low, even, and taut.

The expanse of his hand like heated iron over your bare skin, his eyes flash at the ringing silence.

His hand lifts, and you suddenly choke out an exhale, hastily breathing out a scant answer, barely making the countdown to zero.

“Yes.”

His hand comes down in a caress, and you can feel him melt into your skin and submission.

But then you remember that you’re not just the prey in this little game of cat and mouse, and your lips quirk into an innocent smile again.

Clashing right into what is supposed to be his softening gaze.

It all happens in an instinct-driven second, but in your autodestructive mind’s eye, it’s the execution of a slow-danced chase. 

Your lover’s vision snaps, his hand seizes up, and the precursory bruises of a five digit handprint blooms exquisitely under the edge of a yellow claw cut much too short.

You’re being backed up into the hallway, one heavy, hurried step at a time, past the living room, right through the rattling frames of your shared bedroom door. The last lucid thought you have is of those stupid, explicit claw marks before the chase turns to a fever high. 

Truly tired with a face relaxed in a post-marathon bliss, Sakusa now rests on his side, with you in his arms, rough palms soothing over the point zero handprint and its subsidiaries. 

Somewhere at the entrance of the room lies the rumpled black and gold, the catalyst of a Sunday morning well spent.

Curled up, Sakusa mumbles into the back of your head.

_Will you promise to never do it again?_

_Yes._

With a satisfied hum, he gives the tender patch of skin one last caress before heading to the bathroom.

You hear a bath being drawn.

With a small smile, you fall back down onto the bed, already anticipating next Sunday.

Next week, you’re going to surprise him with the singlet.


End file.
